Hits and Misses: George Everest Peak
I’ve had only one chance so far to see Mt Everest — this, from the window of an aeroplane between New Delhi and Paro. Nose glued to the window, I saw several snow-capped mountains, hoping that the pilot would announce any moment that the shining peak we were passing that moment was Mt Everest. It didn’t happen. One of the many swirling clouds hid that elusive mountain; fittingly so, because it was the most turbulent flight I’ve ever been on. However, G. saw Mt Everest on his flight back to Delhi — I took the Kolkata route, which meant I barely saw any mountains.
But there are options. George Everest, the surveyor after whom Mt Everest is named (and a victim of name mispronunciation), lived in Mussoorie for eleven years. On our trip to the town last year, we decided to see George Everest Peak, an infinitely less daunting alternative to years of sacrifice, training, and mountain climbing. Having spent nearly four days in mist and rain, we awoke to a fairly clear morning, which we were determined to take advantage of.
Everest’s house is a healthy hike (for the uninitiated) up a hill; a paved road goes up to the recently renovated building and lawns, beyond which, winding to the top, is a steep path with steps and boulders. If you manage to get to this point, you can perhaps say that you’ve been up Everest. I know I’d like to.
We took a cab to the steep, slushy path which branched off to “base camp”, basically a line of stalls selling tea and Maggi to the intrepid adventurers making ready for their arduous climb. To our wonder, a pristine meadow, straight out of a Swiss postcard, lay on our right. No people, no discarded food wrappers. Then we saw the “No Trespassing” sign, and were again surprised at how diligently people had obeyed it.
We began the climb, closely followed by a bunch of younger men who did not enjoy the sound of silence or birdsong. Film music came on, but not for long, because they had thankfully forgotten to charge their Bluetooth speaker. As we huffed up the paved path, they kept pace with us, more or less. Strangers from opposite parts of the country, united not by food or music, but by our lack of fitness.
Damp trees grew thick on the mountainside. We stopped occasionally to catch our breath, looking into the unknown darkness of the conifers. As I think back to it now, with the reassuring night music of crickets and my own ceiling fan, I wonder what kinds of sounds fill the Himalayan air. What lurks in the dark? Whose eyes pierce the night? Why am I thinking of the omnibus of ghost stories edited by Ruskin Bond?
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When we arrived at Everest’s house — which was closed for work — the sun shone brightly, the skies were a placid blue, and it seemed that the clouds had finally decided to depart for newer pastures. Not so. Having dithered, then made up our minds to climb up to the peak from the ridge where the house was, we saw the clouds prepare to accompany us. They arrived swiftly, diaphanous and different shades of grey, trying desperately to blot out the blue. There was no rain, only rapid sweeps across the sky, layer after layer.
We continued to climb, encouraged by the groups of people in their twenties who seemed to gambol up the path. We left the music lovers waiting for their Maggi at the rest stop, and continued on our way. The path forked. We clearly took the one less travelled, because our only companions here were specimens of sturdy Himalayan cattle.
Not wanting to get too adventurous, G. went up a rocky path to see if there was a route ahead, while I stayed back to enjoy the fluttering prayer flags. Soon enough, we were retracing our steps to take the path we should have taken — but as we approached the last short, but rather steep, climb to the summit, a thick wall of clouds besieged us. Respecting our limitations, we decided to return. Our decision was justified by the odd drops of rain that struck our faces. We hastened back to the house, then down the slope to “base camp”, by which time it was pouring.
We bundled ourselves into the car and returned to town, heading straight to a restaurant for a well-deserved lunch. All too soon, from a haunted landscape, we were in the midst of weekend revellers, the trappings of a tourist town.
I can truthfully say that I never scaled a peak named Everest, but I did come very close to it. Also, you might know that Everest was buried in Hove, Sussex. I didn’t know this when I lived in Brighton, but I did visit a graveyard in Hove, and maybe it was the one he was buried in. I’ll never know. Everest and I have clearly not got on well, but who knows in what form we will make our next attempt at an acquaintance?
